


When He Came Home

by livedifferently



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angstangstangst, Anxiety, Grief, Guilty Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmare, PTSD, Panic Attack, Sad, Sad John, Sherlock Comforts, Super angsty, but if i do that it will be very sad, i love sherlock and john, perhaps i shall make it a full story, perhaps this is a one shot, this is my first story please have grace, we shall see how it goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28769763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livedifferently/pseuds/livedifferently
Summary: After being dead for two years and returning to his best friend John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is soon to realize the emotional turmoil he caused his friend. A night at 221B is interrupted with the sounds of John having a panic attack, his PTSD worse than ever. Sherlock lets his own walls down as he does his best to take the pain away.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	When He Came Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I am Bec and I have loved Sherlock since 2010, but recently I have fallen in love with the show all over again and have been inspired to write some angsty Johnlock stories. This is my first time using AO3 so be patient and please let me know what you think!

It has been a week since Sherlock's return and the tension is still higher than ever. John is avoiding him as much as he can, but the questions he has in his mind are scratching on the inside of his skull, begging to be released. Needing to know. Why didn't Sherlock tell John? Why did Mycroft, Molly, his parents know, but not John? On multiple occasions, Sherlock had expressed that John was the only person he truly loved... if you truly loved someone, you would tell them if you were going to fucking kill yourself. 

But he didn't. He dropped off of that building, fell to the concrete with a thud, and John felt the blood under his boots, the lack of a pulse under his fingertips. He told John nothing and kept silent for two years. You don't do that to someone you love. 

Maybe Sherlock wasn't who John thought he was. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he is a deranged sociopath, unable to care, unable to have compassion, just putting on a fake show for everyone.

These are the thoughts that pulse through the doctor's mind as he runs down the neighborhood road he and his fiance lived on, a tight white shirt clinging to his small but built structure, his hair wet with sweat. It was 8:00 P.M and he was doing his nightly sprint. 

Exercising was all he had done the past seven days between eating, sleeping, and arguing with Mary about forgiving the six-foot man with coal colored hair who he refused to think about. Yet here he was, thinking about him... Sherlock haunts him, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. 

Staying fit, keeping his blood pumping, and moving until his lungs were about to cave in on themselves distracted John. It distracted John from Sherlock, from his already-there PTSD and depression, from the panic attacks he has the second he is alone, and from the night terrors he has every night as he pictures the detective he adored falling from the sky. John found himself doing old drills that he used to do when fighting in Afganistan. Fifty burpees in the morning, a morning jog, doing wall sits in his office as he waits for patients, two hundred push-ups during lunch break, and two hundred sit-ups after dinner. Nightly run, fifty pull-ups before bed. He was a machine and it had only been seven days: he felt like he was just getting started.

This feeling of freedom that moving gave him was addicting. Freedom from his thoughts, freedom from his anxiety, freedom from that fucking man. He didn't have to think if he could run long enough that his legs went numb. He was so focused on meeting his next goal, hitting his next mile that he couldn't see Sherlock's smile in the back of his mind or hear his warm laugh when he waits in his office. He had it under control and with not eating, he had already lost ten pounds. Finally, something he could control.

His run and his thoughts are interrupted when the song "Single Ladies" blares through his earbuds, interrupting the song he was running to and completely throwing his rhythm and beat off. Mary chose Single Ladies for a reason he does not know. She put that on his phone one morning and giggled until her ribs hurt at the irony of it all, as they were both anything but single and engaged to be married. John thought it was a bit elementary of her and didn't completely understand the hilarity of it, but perhaps that was because he was now a bitter man who laughed at very few things nowadays.

"Bloody hell," he mutters to himself as his legs slow down. "Can't a man get some peace?" He angrily fumbles for his phone, a few colored words streaming from his lips as he does so.

John was a professional and educated man who didn't choose to curse often, but the past two years had shifted him in more ways than one. Losing his foundation caused him to be completely and utterly bitter, and now that said foundation has returned, the fire of rage has only grown. 

Looking down at the screen, he sees Mary's name. Somewhat disappointed that it wasn't who he had expected, he slides his course thumb across the screen, walking to the right of the sidewalk as dog walkers and joggers pass him by.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Hello, love, I just wanted to check in and let you know that the apartment is flooded. Joey and Jill's bathtub broke a pipe or something of the sort, to be honest, I wasn't listening, and as you know I am out of town on my nursing conference so you will have to find somewhere to stay -"

John groans, his hand going to his face as he scrunches his eyes together and rubs his bushy eyebrows with his calloused hands, a classic John move that meant stress. "Fine, it's fine. I will simply stay in a hotel."

"No need to do that, dear, I've already messaged Mrs. Hudson. Your room is still empty and your bed is still there, I'm sure you can find an old change of clothes!"

John's face drops, his hand clutching his telephone. "Why did you call Mrs. Hudson when I am perfectly capable of going to a hotel and settling in it myself?"

"Okay, Grumpy. Lose that tone of voice! You and I get married soon, we have bills to pay, decorations and dresses to buy, let alone the things we pay for on a daily basis. We do not need to spend our money on a $200.00 bed when your very own bed is a block away for free."

"But what about -"

"He won't be there. He is out on a case, been gone for three days, and isn't expected back until the day after tomorrow. Do you truly think I'd do that to you?"

John ignores the disappointment that comes to his mind once again at the absence of Sherlock Holmes but is soon to remind himself that he wants absolutely nothing to do with the heartless detective. Right?

"Alright, that sounds fine. Inconvenient, but fine nonetheless. I'll just jog to Baker Street, no need to get a cab when I'm just a street over."

Mary smiles over the phone. "There we go," she exclaims. "Thinking through your wallet. Perfect."

John rolls his eyes. Mary is a sweet girl, of course, but sometimes he wondered if he would truly be able to handle her for eternity. She was very... happy. Very consistent. There is a lack of excitement, of exhilaration when it comes to her. Sometimes he wonders if he's emotionally attached at all or if she is simply a replacement for...

Well, you know who.

"Alright, Mary. See you in a few days."

"Bye, John, love you!"

Click.

Knowing Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him, more than likely with a tray of cookies and a fresh cup of hot tea, John runs faster. He knew she would be waiting and that is someone he never wants to let down.

\-------

"Fascinating," Mrs. Hudson says, both of her hands wrapped around her cup as she listens to John speak.

Of course, John was not speaking of anything truly fascinating, but of work and the fourteen stitches he had to do on a patient that day. Less than fulfilling to him, but Mrs. Hudon appreciated the company so of course, he continued. 

"Well, if you want, I can tell you about -"

"Oh, honey," she interrupts, stopping him. "I would love to continue to chat, but I am an old lady, you know. I have a bedtime! But thank you for coming over, darling, I truly missed you." She stands, putting her cup gingerly in the sink. She begins for the door and as she passes John who so thoughtfully opened it for her, she slightly touches his arm.

"I'm not the only one who lives here... who... you know... misses you."

John smiles, "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

Closing the door behind her, he curses to himself. Almost two hours of conversation without thinking of him and now here he is, alone in their flat. He is surrounded by Sherlock, cigarette pads here, a skull there, a test tube there. He checks the fridge out of curiosity and sure enough, there is a liver in the freezer, sitting next to the frozen peas. Signs of the detective swarm him like flies and his scent is stuck to every piece of furniture, giving John a feeling of relief for the first time in two years.

John's chair was exactly where it was the last time he was in the flat, and before going to bed, he sits. No pull-ups, no arguing with Mary. For a second, he just breathes.

"Good to be home, hmm?"

That voice.

Immediately, the hairs on John's arms and neck stood up at a halt. His face almost immediately turned pink and his stomach dropped to his feet. His fists clench, his heart begins to ram against his ribcage. 

Before even turning around and seeing the man, John doesn't know what he wants to do. His body is giving him mixed signals and his mind is no better.

One leg wants to storm out, the other is too in shock to move. One arm wants to hug Sherlock for dear life and never let him go ever again, while the other one wants to pummel him until the bones in his face turn to smithereens. John's heart is both shattered and threaded together by hearing those five words.

The control Sherlock so apparently has on him shocks him, yet makes him feel extraordinarily safe as he had missed being able to be there with the detective and fulfill his every wish. 

Anger is the emotion that wins the mental battle as John stands up, his right hand gripping the back of his chair so strongly that his knuckles turn white.

Through gritted teeth, John mutters "what the hell are you doing here?"

Sherlock sheds his iconic black coat and begins to walk over to John. "Well, it is my house. This is where I live."

John looks up at Sherlock through his crinkled forehead. "You know what I mean. What are you doing here, right this second. They weren't expecting you to return for a few more days."

"Oh, John! Must you think so little of me? I would never have taken that long on a case. A child goes missing in Utah, from a family of sixteen and a mother with a past... Obviously, it was a Mormon family and she was murdered by her mother's first boyfriend."

John scoffs, "yeah, obviously. Well, I'll be on my way."

He starts for the door when Sherlock grabs his shoulder. "No, you cannot go to a hotel because you need to save up for the wedding. Molly is asleep and Gus is having marital issues, you would not be able to sleep on his couch because he is there already. You cannot sleep on the streets because I simply just won't allow that and you can't sleep in your car because that is at your house, blocks away, and it is freezing outside. By the looks of it, you lack proper thinking and have left a winter coat at home, so yet again, I will simply not allow you to walk home in the cold. It is apparent you cannot stay home because there is a flood from your neighbor's bathtub and I am aware of that due to   
a simple call from your future wife."

John aggressively shakes his hand off, but Sherlock continues to speak anyway. "You have a bed here, a bathroom to yourself, a landlady who will most definitely make you homemade breakfast in the morning, and a brilliant best friend who has come back from the grave to chat with. This is obviously the most logical place to stay."

John instinctively grabs Sherlock's wrist and pins it behind his back, Sherlock grunting in pain as John had the power to break it if he applied more pressure, a fact both John and Sherlock were aware of. Sherlock's breath hitches as John whispers "First of all, his name is Greg you ignorant, selfish prick. Second of all, I am not here for you. I am not here to chat. I am not here to make peace. And you are not my best friend, never have been."

Releasing him, John starts for his own room. He stops midway, looking at the ground. "Best friends wouldn't do that to each other," and continued walking, leaving a very ashamed detective behind. 

\------

It was 2:00 in the morning when Sherlock heard it for the first time.

It was subtle, but it was enough to shake Sherlock from his sleep.

Sherlock had six senses. He could feel, touch, taste, see, hear, and sense when something is wrong with John Watson.

Sitting up immediately, Sherlock senses John from the other room. Something was wrong.

Silently but quickly, Sherlock pulls his black silk sheets to the side and pulls on a pair of gray socks from his dresser. The flat got drafty at night, especially during the winter, and Sherlock hated walking on the cool floor barefooted. 

He pulls himself out of his full bed gracefully (he never felt the need for a queen or king-sized as he never had lovers or significant others stay the night) and silently walked to John's door like a prowling cat, ears focused to catch the next red flag, feet silent and sleek, his thin and long body lankily hovering, waiting. 

Less than twenty seconds later, a whimper comes from behind the door. 

On the chance that it was nothing, Sherlock stays outside a bit longer. He didn't want to bother John if nothing was wrong. He never meant to hurt him and had been trying to give his friend some space. The last thing he wanted to do was storm in on nothing -

Sherlock's thoughts are immediately stopped as he hears a painful, belting scream coming from John's room.

"SHERLOCK!!!"

In less than a second, Sherlock is striding in, his face drenched with worry, eyes seeking the doctor.

The bed was empty, and as moonlight shined through the partially closed blinds, Sherlock found John in a ball beside his dresser, the veins in his neck bulging from screaming, rivers of tears drowning his face. His face was buried in his knees, his arms wrapped around his calves, slowly rocking back and forth.

Shock is the only thing that Sherlock feels at first as he assesses the situation. This was not a murder, this was not a mystery, this was John who needed his help and Sherlock froze, not knowing what to do. 

A few seconds later, the detective realized that his friend was having a night terror and although you aren't supposed to wake those with violent dreams, Sherlock couldn't bear to watch the man on the ground struggle anymore. The tears on his face broke Sherlock's hardened heart slowly but surely and the man didn't know what he should do, but he knew he had to do something. John didn't deserve to be so scared, Sherlock should let him know that he was there. 

"John," he whispers, crouching on his knees and crawling over to him slowly. He creeps on all fours, gently and softly. 

When he finally gets to the man and John is at arms length, Sherlock's big hand swallows one of John's knees and rubs it, gently. "John, wake up. Wake up John, it's just a dream."

Sobs continue out of the doctor, some soft, some belting. He sobs Sherlock's name, over and over again. He shakes all over, the front of his hunter green shirt damp from tears, his sports-gray sweatpants catching the tears that missed the shirt. 

"I'm here, John. I am right here," Sherlock whispers helplessly through his hair. Sherlock was antsy now, rubbing John's knee and softly speaking to him was not helping. 

Sherlock slowly takes John's head out between his knees and pushes his knees down, flattening his legs. God knows how long this night terror was going on and how long his body had been so crunched up into a small ball, his joints must have been begging for release.

Without the safety shell that his body had created for him, John began to stir. His green eyes open, meeting blue. Sherlock's alabaster skin almost glows in the dark, his eyes piercing like a demon while his light gray, silk sleep shirt makes him look like an angel. 

"John," Sherlock whispers, breathlessly. He gently raises his hand and caresses John's cheek, John instinctively leaning into the large hand, the warmth, and the safety he felt whenever Sherlock was near. 

Abnormally warm and lovingly, Sherlock's soft thumb wipes at John's wet face, the dampness of his tears being dried. 

John reads Sherlock's face and it is full of worry. John has seen this look before, and it is a rare expression. Sherlock had never once looked at potential girlfriend Molly in this way, nor his big brother Mycroft, nor even his landlady Mrs. Hudson. This face was the face Sherlock used when he was scared, scared for John. It was the same face he used when he saw John strapped to a bomb, the same face he used when he knew there was a sniper watching John's every move, waiting to pull the trigger.

"I - I'm sorry," John says, guilt flooding over him. "Did I wake you?"

Sherlock ignores the question. "What were you dreaming about?"

Looking at the floor, John mutters something about a war flashback and PTSD. 

Sherlock touches John's knee with his hand while the other slowly rubs circles on his cheek. "John, you were screaming my name."

John chokes back a sob, getting visibly upset again. "I-I'm sorry. Sometimes I just think - I see you, I hear you telling me your goodbye... I see you fall from the building. I can still smell the blood on my hands." Slowly showing signs of shaking again, John's voice trembles. "I'm sorry Sherlock, please leave." He weeps. "God damn it, God damn it. Please fucking leave, I don't... I cannot have you see - seeing me like this," he chokes out.

Sherlock's heart breaks as the strong veteran who protected him from the cabbie and would go on life-threatening adventures with him fell into pieces... right before Sherlock's eyes. Because of Sherlock. Sherlock left, Sherlock traumatized him... Sherlock caused this pain.

Sherlock stands up, a sob escaping John as he thinks the man is truly leaving. 

To both of their surprise, Sherlock does not leave. He moves John forward and away from the wall, then sits directly behind him. 

He molds his body around the smaller man, his chest to John's back and his legs on either side of John's body. Gently, he wraps his arms around John's back and the doctor is quick to relax in the long man's embrace. This was intimate, the most intimate both physically and emotionally, Sherlock had ever been.

John's sobs stop slowly and Sherlock found himself burying his own face into the side of John's neck. He did his best to envelope the entire doctor in his embrace, wishing he could simply melt into the doctor and keep him safe from hurt and harm for the rest of time.

Sherlock was not an emotional man. He would rather die before ever showing Gus or Mycroft this side of him. He was not a soft man, not a man of gentle touches and kind gestures or sweet words of nothing. He was not that man, but when it came to his John, every single wall he had spent everyday building came crashing down the second those eyes meet his own. Seeing him in pain put Sherlock in pain and knowing that this time, it was Sherlock's fault he was so upset, Sherlock wanted to hold him and never let go. He wanted to spend the rest of his life apologizing and never leave again. 

Yes, John was the only person Sherlock loved, but John was also the only person who loved Sherlock.

By now, John was totally relaxed in Sherlock's embrace, most of the tension in his body had subsided and he was nodding off. 

John was unhealthily skinny, Sherlock noticed, as he found no problem in lifting the man with one arm under his knee and the other supporting his back.

The six-foot giant carried the five-foot-seven doctor to the bed, gently covering him with his comforter, and began to leave the bedroom when he stopped in his tracks. He heard John again and felt those familiar strong, calloused hands reach out to grab his own. "Sherlock," John mumbled. "Stay. Stay, or they come back."

Sherlock sat on the bed gingerly, his hand falling on John's hip as it poked out from his side-laying position. "Does this happen every night?"

John nods. "Usually I can get to the office in time and wait for them to go away. Mary doesn't know."

"How long have they been going on?"

"Every night for the past two years."

Sherlock's heart breaks yet again, but he knew he had to stay. John needed him. He needed John.

Silently, Sherlock walks to the other side of the bed and gingerly pulls back the navy blue sheets, John's figure outlined in the moonlight. 

John feels the weight in the bed and turns to face Sherlock who stares at him, his black curls laying across the pillow beautifully and gracefully. 

Sherlock reaches out from under the covers and caresses John's neck, feeling his pulse and smiling to himself as he sees it had calmed down since having laid in bed with John. John exhales slowly, his eyes closing as Sherlock's soft hand touches his jaw, tracing it. He traces the outline of John's ear, of his face. He reaches behind John's head and strokes his hair slowly, comfortingly. 

John is surprised at the intimacy, at the intentionality. John felt safe. 

Gaining courage, John scooted forward in the bed and laid his head on Sherlock's chest, his left arm wrapping around the detective's stomach. He exhales as Sherlock tightens his grip on John's waist. Yes, he felt safe. Sherlock was enjoying it, Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was choosing to sleep with John, to comfort John. Sherlock chose John over his own issues. John basked in the idea that finally, Sherlock was his for the night and John was Sherlock's.

Sherlock lifted the back of John's shirt and rubbed his back in gentle, mind-numbing circles until both men fell asleep, comfortable and safe in the embrace of the other.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave thoughts and comments, I want to know what you think!


End file.
